


This Is Me Trying

by Cassius_theCorrupterofSouls



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst and Feels, Arguing, Arranged Marriage, Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Don't Like Don't Read, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I can't stress that last tag enough, I changed a few things to match the actual history, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Loneliness, Love/Hate, Loveless Marriage, Making Up, Marriage of Convenience, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Post-Francis's Death, Second marriage, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassius_theCorrupterofSouls/pseuds/Cassius_theCorrupterofSouls
Summary: Mary Stuart thought she had it all. A political alliance with France that would aid her in her mission to win back her rightful place on the Scottish throne through her marriage to its next king Francis de Valois, whom she came to love with all her heart. Or so it seemed, until Francis died, leaving her widowed and alone.No longer welcome in France, Mary thought she owed it to her late husband to return to her homeland and reclaim her royal title as was their dream when he had been alive, and vowed to do so by any means necessary, even if that meant forming a new political alliance in the guise of marriage. What she did not know was how that second marriage to her cousin the Lord Darnley would cost her even more than she thought possible, threatening both her reign and what yet remained of her broken heart.
Relationships: Lord Darnley/Mary Stuart (Reign)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	This Is Me Trying

**Author's Note:**

> So I just finished watching Reign and couldn't get these characters out of my head. I was absolutely enamored with their relationship, the way they tried to find love again with each other only for it all to fall apart. My first thought after finishing the show was to try to find some good angsty fics to indulge in, celebrating this disaster of a relationship, only to find to my disbelief that there really weren't any. So now, in the deepest sort of desperation that inspires quick action, I thought to rectify that and the result is this fic here. I wrote it mostly for myself, but it's also for the other Marnley shippers out there, wherever you may be (seriously message me on tumblr if you ship them). This is my first attempt at writing them and I tried my best to write them as in character as possible, while also remaining faithful to the fact that in the show it is Francis who is the love of Mary's life. 
> 
> The title was previously called "Shining, Like It Should" from the song "Kingdom Fall" that plays during the scene where Mary and Darnley are wed, but Dep convinced me to change it to the current title, which is the title of one of Taylor Swift's songs from the album Folklore. I had just purchased the album and was listening to that song on repeat while editing the final draft of the fic and I just felt the chorus of that song matched what Mary and Darnley are going through during the story that I decided to go with it as the title after all (thanks again, Dep), despite the fact that most of the lyrics really don't fit them at all. 
> 
> (If you know me from my ArMor fic I've been working on and are wondering where the hell I've been the last month or so (and why there are no updates on Solitary Love yet *gasp*) this is where I've been, thanks to these stupid characters, who have taken over my heart just as much as Arthur and Morgana did five years ago. Don't worry. Now that I have this fic out of my system, I'll be back to working on ArMor, I promise.)

* * *

Mary Stuart once thought love and marriage were one and the same thing. Now, as she looked over the piece of parchment in her hand, she thought herself a fool for once thinking so. Her former mother-in-law had been right. There was no place for love in the life of a queen such as herself, and certainly none to be found in her current marriage, an arrangement made in haste and necessity in her last attempt to win back her Scottish throne from the stiff grip of her English cousin. She had been a fool indeed, she now reckoned, to have thought she could go through with such a marriage, with its red flags of warning staring her right in the face, and come through it on the other side of the ceremony just as cherished and beloved as she knew deep down, she deserved to be. It had been stupid of her, she now realized, but then again, she had not been thinking of herself, but only of her country, her people, her reign. After all, she had had love once, and had vowed that love, so pure and steadfast, could never be replaced.

Still, she would be lying if she did not admit that a part of her come the forlorn day of her second wedding was praying for a second chance for love. At merely eighteen, she had been a widow, and the thought of closing her heart off for good was a somber one at best. Catherine de Medici had been correct in her assessment of her as always; she was not fit to be a nun. 

And, God be good and grant her a long, promising life, how long was she supposed to continue on as she had in the days following his sudden death, pledging her heart to the shade of his memory? Francis was dead. Surely, he would want her to continue her mission, head back to Scotland and stake her claim that was her birthright by any means necessary? But not only that. Surely, he would have wanted some happiness for her as well?

Well, she had tried for his sake as much as her own, but every effort she placed into her new marriage with the cousin she hardly knew, only ended with another thorn in her side. She had tolerated the lying, the drinking, the cheating, all of it, knowing he wanted her even less than she wanted him, but now this?

She let the contract fall from her hand to the desk, the paper landing so gently, belying the weight it carried in the ink imparted on it. The terms regarding the Crown Matrimonial at the expressed wish of her new husband. The sight should have filled her with rage, but all she felt was sadness, a sense of loss she had no words for. It seemed after she had tried so hard to ignore her husband’s faults and forgive him time and again, he had found one more way to punish her for a reason she did not know. She had made him King Consort, but even that it would seem was not enough where his ambitions were concerned and now, now he demanded she sign in writ her name so he may seize her throne upon her death. The thought chilled her blood. She had tried to love him, she had, but it seemed he had shown his true colors at last and whatever words of flattery he had once given her, it proved that he cared not for her, only her claim, the one she alone could give him. 

She had a crazy thought. What if she did sign away her will and give him what he wanted? Would it end it all, his rotten behavior? Would he apologize? Would he come back to her, love her even? She tried to laugh at the thought, but tears welled in her eyes instead, as she thought of her one true love, dead and buried in his untimely grave.

_Francis would never have asked such of me,_ she thought loyally. But then again, Francis had been a King in his own right. What need had he of such a pathetic writ? But if the situations were reversed and Francis had been King Consort what then? She did not think long on the thought, before affirming aloud to herself in desperate reassurance, “Francis was a good man. It’s all the rest that can’t sit by and be content while a woman rules.” 

A part of her wanted to rip up the contract and throw the pieces into the fire, where they would burn to ashes, forgotten, but she remained seated in her chair staring at the inked page until the words blurred before her vision and she had no choice but to lift her arm to wipe at her eyes. 

That was when she heard the door creak open, and she swiftly dropped her hand to her lap and quickly swallowed the lump that was growing in her throat. 

“You could learn to knock, you know,” she said as coldly as she could muster without turning to eye her intruder with the glare she now wore.

He laughed, and she hated him for it. “We’re married now. I don’t need your permission.”

She swiveled around in her chair to fasten him with her scornful look. “But I am still—”

“My Queen?” he finished for her, and she wanted to hurl something at his cocksure face. “Relax,” he said. “That’s what I came here to talk to you about. I see you’ve read the terms I put before you. Have you considered—”

“No, I have not considered it!” she snapped. She reached for her glass on the table and took a stubborn sip of wine. “What would you have me give you, Darnley? My birthright or my life? Is that what you want? Do you want to see your Queen, your _wife_ dead in her grave before her time just so the privy council can name you King of Scotland!” 

“I told you, I would be your _equal_ ,” he glowered. “So, I had this proposal written up. You only need sign it. That’s all. No foul play. I swear it on my life.”

She laughed. “Like your word _means_ anything! Didn’t you give me your oath when we were wed? And how many whores have you bedded in that time? I should have had our marriage annulled!”

“But you wouldn’t do that now, my dear, with England so close,” he added to her fury. “Admit it, you need me and the alliances I can give you. You married me for them after all, as I recall. And I have given you my allegiance. I only ask that you grant me this small thing in return. It’s only fair.” 

She snorted. “ _Fair_ is not the way I see it. It stinks of plots and treason.” 

“You always did think the best of me,” he said. 

“Just get out!” 

“Make me.” 

Without thinking she raised her hand to hurl the wineglass, still half-full, at his face, when he made a sudden lunge for her arm, stopping her in her place. 

“ _Darnley_ , let go of me,” she said through her teeth, but when he did not release his grip on her arm like she thought he would, she grew frightened and made to smack his head with the glass. 

He batted her hand away as if she were naught but a child and the glass fell tumbling to the floor with a screeching shatter, drenching the carpet a bloodstained red. “Now, love,” he said, eying both her and the broken glassware with interest, as if she alone was responsible for its breakage, “do be civil.”

“Let go of me!” she said again, tearing her eyes from the mess to glare back up at him, “or I will yell for the guards. They’ll listen to me.”

“I’m sure they will,” he said. “So, let’s not have to call them. Now, stop fighting and come here.” 

“What in God’s name are you _doing_?” she said, as she tried to wrestle out of his grip, even as he was leading her out of the study and into the next room. When she saw the bed, the one they were supposed to share and had yet to share since the night of their marriage, a sudden shudder went through her, and she tried to bolt, but his grip was just too strong. “Darnley, let go, damn you! I will not _lie_ with you! And if you try to force yourself atop me, I will scream!”

“Hush,” he said, as he released her and she fell down upon the bed, staring at him openmouthed. “And don’t get yourself all worked up. I’m not about to force myself upon you for God’s sake. That’s not my way. I much prefer my women to want me.”

“You’re full of it,” she snapped. “Then why did you bring me here?” she asked on second thought, glancing at the bedchamber around them, its candles already lit for late evening though it was only just growing dark outside. “If you think I’m going to reconsider granting you the Crown Matrimonial now that we’re here, you have just lost your mind!”

“Another tactic,” he said then, coming to sit down next to her on the bed. “I realize I’ve not been very good to you, not that you have treated me any differently, but still, I must own up for my mistakes where you’re concerned.”

She laughed. “You have lost it.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But, Mary, I wanted this marriage to work between us just as much as you did.”

She snorted. “You had an _interesting_ way of showing it.”

“And so did you,” he said irritably, before saying oddly quiet, “So why don’t you let me make it up to you?”

“And how are _you_ supposed to do that?” she asked, arms crossed defensively upon her chest. 

“Like this,” he said and reached to pull her close in his arms. 

She surprised at herself when she failed to fight him, not knowing quite why she relented as if all her strength had just sapped out of her, although now that he had her in his arms, she felt her body stiffen at his touch. 

“Let me pleasure you, Mary,” he whispered into her ear, his breath tickling her eardrum. 

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “But you said—” she said, not knowing why she thought he would keep his word this time. He never kept his word and yet every time she thought to give him one more chance and trust him, she found herself surprised at his inevitable betrayal.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he vowed to her. “I promise.” 

She blushed despite herself, suddenly feeling quite shy and a far cry from the Queen she was by birth and name. She looked down at the bedspread, at his hands also atop the bed, and felt her mind awash with the thought of those hands upon her naked body. “I wouldn’t know…” she said at last. 

She had been with men before—she had been married now twice after all and was no stranger to marital relations—so that was not the issue. She had in fact consummated both her unions the night of the arranged ceremony and in a room full of witnesses no less, but unlike with Darnley, with whom she had shared her bed just once, she had had the loving privilege of being with her first husband Francis more times than she could longer remember, pain her as it did that those sweet, precious memories of him and herself together that she once held onto so tightly in the weeks following his death could slip her on by like water from a sieve. 

It had been different with her late husband—that was the issue she supposed. There had been an easiness with him, where she felt loved, secured, protected—the both of them equals inside the bedroom and out. He had treated her not only as his wife, but as his partner and she had treated him likewise in return. The two of them were destined to win back her homeland and rule together as one their joined countries of France, Scotland, and England, if fortune so blew their way. That had been the dream, their joint destiny since they were betrothed to one another as children, but it seemed the fates had had other plans, and Francis died years before his time from an illness she could not save him from. And when Francis died, she knew she could never quite replace the tender confidence she had had with him when it came time three months into her mourning to consider the next political alliance she would be forced to make in the name of marriage. 

That reckoning on her part had proved quite true the moment her cousin the Lord Darnley had taken her to their shared bed the night of their wedding. It had been all about him that night, his pleasure, herself no more than a field to be sowed with his seed, the promise of an heir that would ensure her royal line continued. She had suffered the consummation with that end goal in sight, and prayed to God above for her womb to quicken with child that very night so she never would have to lie with him again. Two months had passed since then and to her misery she had had her bleeding, and so she prepared herself for the moment when she and he would have to try for a child again. But to her surprise, Darnley made no effort to come to her rooms again to perform their joint duty, and neither did he lay a finger on her for her failure to conceive. In truth, he had not come to her chambers once in that couple months’ time to relieve himself of whatever desire he might yet harbor for her body, so she was quite struck that he had come to her now at all, and not only that, but that he had come speaking of her needs, her pleasure, without a seeming thought to his own. It seemed rather unlike him, at least as far as her understanding of him went, and a small part of her was willing to be so surprised. 

“You were no virgin queen the night of our wedding,” he said then to her almost kindly. “So, you must know…”

“I don’t,” she repeated, swallowing her trepidation. “With you that is,” she added stiffly. 

“Well, then,” he said. “I’ll improvise, and you can tell me as I go what you like.”

She nodded, though she still felt hesitant, as if waiting for the trick. That was what her mind was telling her, but her body spoke another narrative. It yearned to be touched, to be held, to be caressed and dare she confess it, loved. It had been far too long since Francis, and her skin, betray her mind, her heart it now did, felt touch-starved and hungry. Catherine’s words came back to her. _You are not a nun, Mary_. It was true, she was not. She was a Queen, and deserved to be adored like a Queen. That was what Darnley was promising her. And what was the worst that could happen? She had already known him at his worst, and she had survived. And perhaps, this was for the best. Perhaps, if she humored him, he would get her with child and then she could put an end to their marital relations once and for all. And then she could go back to mourning Francis and remembering the bits of him still imprinted on her skin when she touched herself late at night in that dark time when she was at her loneliest.

“Alright,” she said, though she dared not look up at him. It would be all the easier to pretend that it was Francis touching her if she did not look.

“Lie down, then,” he said gently, and she found herself heeding his word. She pressed herself down into the softness of the bedcovers, prompting her mind to at once silence and still itself into a state of abstraction. 

“Good,” he said. 

There was an uncertain pause, and she wondered if perhaps he had changed his mind, but no, a moment later, she felt him move closer to her side, his hand almost hesitant as it pulled up her skirts. 

She could feel him looking at her, at the pale skin of her legs, and wondered whether he would force himself upon her after all. It would be so like him, she figured, to lie about this too, not that she cared any longer. She closed her eyes, and thought of her first husband. 

That was when she felt his hand, almost tentative on her inner thigh, brushing aside the fine hairs of her leg, as he caressed her. She felt her skin there under his hand almost immediately tingle at his touch, her body remembering another hand, another bed, another time.

“Is this alright?” he asked her quietly.

She startled at the sound of his voice, so different from the man she imagined in her mind, but as he continued to touch her just gently so, she found herself relaxing again. She nodded her response.

He must have noticed her reply for he continued touching her there, seeming content just to do so. She found her mind drifting, lulled by the cadence of his hand on her skin. Her breathing eased.

“Mary,” he said after a time, “how would it be if I kissed you here?”

His voice roused her once more from her trance. He meant where his hand was of course. _Would that be alright?_ her mind voiced back. She did not know, but her body shivered at the thought. A part of her wished he would not talk to ask her this or that. It was more difficult when he spoke to imagine Francis.

Again, she nodded, and in answer, she felt him lower his head down to her legs, his hands all the while holding her steady at the hips. And then not a moment later, she felt his lips, surprisingly tender, kissing the sensitive inner flesh of her thigh. Her skin rose in goose prickles at his touch, as if a ghost had touched her there instead of a living man, and she recalled Francis with longing, the time his lips had graced her so. 

But Francis had touched her there just the once. Darnley now was trailing her thighs with his lips, rising all the higher just before the secret spot between her legs, his hands all the while reaching up to massage her hips, her waist.

Mary sighed despite herself, her body sinking deeper into the comfort of the mattress, as her husband administered his skill, reaching closer and closer to her sex, his mouth now pressed against the crease that joined her leg to her body. 

She was about to exhale again in response to his touch, when suddenly he lifted his head from her nether parts.

“Mary,” he asked, drawing needed breath, “how would it be if I kissed you here?” As if to elucidate his point in case she was daft or perhaps left mindless from his advances, he lifted his hand from her waist and pressed his thumb against the wet folds of her sex. 

_Yes, just so, Francis_ , she thought, _please_ , until she recalled that the voice that spoke was not him because Francis was gone and dead. He had left her all alone in the cruel wide world without even a proper good-bye. And that was when she recalled herself, and remembered that it was Darnley who touched her now and that it was the touch of his lips melting her body’s resolve, defeating her defenses, kiss by kiss, and she realized that she wanted for him to take her apart and tear down the walls she had built around herself to keep him out, to keep any man out who was not Francis. 

“Y-yes,” she said, a mere breathless whisper. She wondered if he even heard her speak.

It was the only answer he needed, for then he brought his mouth down to her sex, kissing her there, once, twice, before entering her gently with his tongue. 

Mary whimpered. Francis had never touched her here like this, and she was surprised that her cousin’s tongue could feel so good lathering her walls.

But then Darnley pressed his tongue deeper, pressing against her clit, and she gasped despite herself at the sheer delight of the sensation. Never before in her life had she felt such a Queen, so willing to be adored as now, and she felt her body undulating beneath her at the continued administration of his tongue inside of her. She was no stranger to sex and pleasure, and yet this was so different from any experience she had before, because unlike the couplings in her past, this pleasure was hers to enjoy alone. She found it fitting, herself a Queen, to be lavished in this way, and Francis, her thoughts of Francis kissing her sex like this felt so strange, so abstracted, so unreal. Francis had been young like herself when they were wed and knew not this sort of lovemaking. 

“You’re tensing up,” Darnley said then, lifting his head to look at her. He had his hands on her legs; she felt them trembling. “Do you want me to continue?”

Her mind was abuzz, as if she had too much to drink. She felt woozy, and was thankful that she was already lying down, else she thought her legs would give out beneath her.

“Mary, are you alright?”

For the first time since he began, she opened her eyes. “I…” she said, gasping between words, “I…” What could she say? She had two options before her, she could reckon that at least, but in her daze, she could not fathom which was the graver offense of the two. Tell him to stop and then cut herself off from feeling so good, or tell him to continue and, in her pleasure, desecrate what memory she had left of Francis.

“I...” she said again and then she found her eyes welling with the tears she vowed to herself she would not cry. 

“Mary,” Darnley said, his voice so soft, so gentle, she hardly recognized him. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head against the pillows. “No,” she said, still gasping for breath. “That’s not—You didn’t, I mean—I just—”

“What, then?”

She sat up, looked him dead in the eye through her tears. “I want you to keep going.”

Her husband had the grace to look surprised. “Then why are you crying?” 

She buried her head in her hands. “Because,” she said. “I shouldn’t want _this_ , want _you_.”

“I’m your husband, aren’t I?” he said. “It’s perfectly normal—”

“You don’t understand!” she yelled, lifting her head to meet his eyes. “I _had_ a husband, a husband I loved dearly and who loved me back! But then he died, and because I am a Queen, I could not spend the rest of my life mourning him, so I had to marry again, marry you that is. And I knew as much as I wanted to stay true to him, to safeguard his memory, I had to try with you, and I did try, because that’s what Francis would have wanted, but then you didn’t _want_ me, did you? Did you? You just want the royal title I can give you. That’s all this is to you! Your little contract you drew up proved that! And this,” she said, gesticulating to the both of them, herself with her skirts hiked up about her waist, himself still clothed, “is just a part of that, isn’t it? You think you can do this and then I’ll make you a proper King, well, I will not!”

“No, Mary,” he said, shaking his head, “that’s not it at all.” He sighed, and she wondered whether he would offer some sort of explanation, and again whether that explanation would contain the apology she thought herself duly owed or would merely be another justification for his actions, when at last he said in meek confession, “Yes, at first, at _first_ ,” he reiterated, “my thoughts were only of the crown, it’s true, but that was before I saw you, Mary, and when I did, I knew I was ready to put aside everything in my life prior to you because I _wanted_ you for _you_. You’re breathtaking, Mary, and I wanted you to find happiness with me, I did, after your loss, and mine, but I couldn’t make you let him go, now could I? It was stupid of me, I see it now, what I did after in my frustration. I should have spoken to you about it, the way I felt, but I didn’t know how, and also, I was envious of you. You’re the Queen of Scotland—a whole nation looks up to you—but what am I, your husband? Nothing. I am nothing. And I have nothing in this marriage. Not respect, not power, not even your love.”

Those last four words struck her in the heart and through. _Not her love?_ She who gave of her heart so easily to all those around her, regardless of what they did or had done—her ladies, her people, even those enemies she thought to win back to her side—all of them she gave a proper chance, and then, when they inevitably let her down, another, and another. She thought she had given Darnley such a chance, no, more than that, every chance, every time he failed her like he always did, she thought she had been willing to give him countless more chances, over and over again, until her heart was left raw from all the pain and dull aching of his wrongdoings. 

But perhaps that narrative she told herself was not as true as she once believed. She had given him every chance to be a man worthy to be her husband, yes, but how many times had she allowed him into that special secret place only she could call her home? The place in her heart which she had instantly given Francis since the day they were betrothed as children and reserved just for him. If she was to be honest with herself, and a honest woman she was, she knew she never allowed Darnley the chance to take up the same place in her heart, not even in the simpler, easier days of their courtship, when it seemed that perhaps, they could make the arrangement work between them, back then before she knew his ambitions and before her suspicions about his whereabouts one dark evening ended in his first love’s tragic death. 

She knew now she never gave Darnley a chance, not a proper one at least, even as she told herself time and time again that she was the one trying to make their marriage work for the sake of her reign. But what of herself? She had promised to try again, to try to find love again, and as much as she had wanted that, to love and be loved in return, another part of her, the part still loyal to and grieving for Francis, had sabotaged that attempt. She never gave Darnley even a piece in their months of courtship and marriage of what she had given at first sight to Francis of her heart. And why? Because he had the misfortune to be the coda to the swan song of her heart’s first love? How was that fair? To him and to her? Did she not deserve some happiness, some semblance of a normal life, as normal as can be for a Queen? 

She wanted to know happiness again, but it was just too much. It felt like a betrayal in her gut, all wrong and twisting. She had loved one man, and still loved that man. Her heart ached for him. Still. And at night, in her dreams, she would sometimes find his ghost visiting her, wearing the pale sickly face of his last days on this earth, and she would wake sobbing and scared and so lonely, wishing she could have him back in her life to have and to hold, to comfort her through the long night. 

Was that what she was afraid of too? Opening her heart up to another man and losing him as well? How many tragedies could her heart suffer in one lifetime? How many times could it shatter, leaving her no choice but to pick up the pieces without a map to guide her as she attempted to reassemble it whole again? 

And Darnley, was he truly as bad as she had made him up to be in her mind in a way to keep herself from falling for him? For feeling that pain again, that dreadful loss. And not only that. The desecration, the replacing and fading away of Francis, his memory and all that he had meant to her. At the moment she was stuck in a threshold between rooms, each foot stamped in a separate chamber, her body hovering in the space between, reluctant to move from one to the other, and scared she might just lose herself if she did. Could she dare cross over from her old life into the life she was now living and shut the door on her past, those brief, blissful days she had had with Francis? Could she close the door on that version of her, that had yet to know loss and grief and misery? And if she could, would she then find it sealed and locked, never to open up again at her beck and call, when she felt at her weakest, as inevitably she would feel—sometime at least—and needed the reminder of what her life could have been? 

“I’m sorry,” she said, coming back to herself, the present, the treacherous moment. The two of them were on a precipice and she did not know whether what they had, what little that was, would be enough to pull them back from the perilous edge. With Francis, all she would have had to do was reach out her hand, but Darnley was another man, and practically a stranger at that, and she, she was not the same woman from before—did she even know herself anymore, what she had by necessity become? “I’m sorry,” she said again, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Look at me, look at you,” he said, bemused, amused, she could not tell—she hardly knew him—“trying to apologize.”

“What would you have me do?” she asked, her interest in him oddly piqued. It was as she felt the first time she laid eyes on him when he had found her by chance—or was it fate?—losing herself in a summer field, a rare day off she thought to give herself, not knowing then, it was only to be a brief respite from the drudging existence that was now her life. A part of her had not been willing to admit, though she allowed herself to admit it silently to herself now, that she had found him surprisingly handsome then—and now too, she supposed—despite their relation.

“If I had my wish?” he asked, amusedly. “Well, I would ask you to let me be a proper husband to you, Mary. I would ask you to allow me to share your burdens. If I am to be your partner, in deed as much as name, I want to be so truly. What good am I as just a figurehead? A Queen such as yourself needs a true King at her side.”

She stiffened, cast her eyes away and downward.

“I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head as he watched her. “Help me understand. Why are you so set on denying me this?”

She sighed, then turned to look him in the eyes. “Because. I don’t _know_ you, Darnley, not really.”

“And whose fault is that?” he asked frustrated. “I _tried_ to make myself known to you, Mary. But you would not have me. Not even for a moment would you let down that wall you’ve built around yourself! But, _Francis_ —”

At the mention of her dead husband, Mary swiveled back to face the one before her that still lived, her eyes livid at the way he took his name in vain.

Seeing that he had her attention, Darnley continued. “Yes, Francis, you would have allowed him to rule at your side. And did he ever do anything to win such loyalty from you? I have given you the throne in Scotland, my family’s alliances did that, and what did he do for you exactly, except die?”

“How dare you!” she shouted. “Francis was more a man than you will ever be!”

“Perhaps,” he said, with a hint of self-deprecation to mask whatever pain she had hoped to inflict upon him. “Certainly, he must have been quite the guy to be able to come between us in our own bed.”

The smack that followed resounded in the dim quiet of the room. Darnley looked at least mildly surprised, if not interested at the way his wife had slapped him across the face. Mary watched him openmouthed, as if she herself was taken aback by her own sudden action. 

She swallowed nervously, looking away from her husband and down at her own throbbing hand. “Forgive me,” she said, clenching it into a fist. 

“Already done,” he said surprisingly easy, watching her curiously. “But tell me why. What is it that he had that I don’t?”

“He had my trust,” she said simply, watching him carefully over her held fist.

“And your love, it would seem,” he added. 

“Yes, that,” she confessed. 

“But,” he began, only to stop himself short, as if he had thought better of whatever he had been about to say.

“ _But?_ ” she repeated, the curiosity getting the better of her. She would know his thoughts if only to arm herself against them in preparation for the moment they became his actions.

“ _But_ ,” he repeated, watching her with care, “I recall you saying something before, something about wanting to try with me. Was that just marriage or was that something more?”

She blushed ever so faintly in the candlelit room, but bright enough, perhaps, for him to see. She hoped not. “I didn’t know what I was saying then,” she said, unclenching her hand, her eyes falling downward to her lap.

“I think you did,” he countered. “At least you seemed to mean it when you said you wished for me to continue, remember?”

Her cheeks burned brighter. 

“Tell me,” he said softly. “Did Francis ever touch you like I just did?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “No,” she said after a moment, wondering why she was suddenly being so open with him, so honest. 

“And yet you wanted more? Wanted me?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said, as if irritated that the secret she had so readily admitted had been found out. And then again, quietly, not more than a murmur, “ _Yes_.”

“Can you explain that then?” he asked. “If I mean nothing to you—”

“I never said that,” she affirmed, her pulse quickening. 

That caught him off guard. She could see the confusion in his face.

“You’re my husband,” she said. “Of course, I care. For what it’s worth.”

“And I care about you, Mary,” he said softly.

She looked up, met his eyes, startled to find him looking back at her. Suddenly she was very aware of her breath, and his, her heartbeat, wondering, despite herself, whether it beat in sync with his own. 

_Could it really be this simple?_ she wondered. Her chance to start anew? She was drawn to him; she could admit it now. For some reason, it did not feel so terrible after all, this opening herself up to him. Perhaps, there was room in her heart for both her husbands? She had never really considered the thought before, but now, she believed herself willing to try. And not just because her marriage depended on it, and her people depended on it, and her reign depended on it—but because she owed it to herself to try again, truly. 

She laughed then, her body releasing the tension it had been harboring deep in her very bones since the day she heard word about the French Court that Francis had been taken to his bed sick and weary, and was near the end, and she had run to his chamber room as fast as she could run and still, even then, she had been too late and he had passed before she had the chance to tell him how much she loved him and breathe in his ear so he could cherish it forever one last tear-strained good-bye. 

She could not remember the last time she had laughed so freely, and Darnley, upon watching her, could not help but laugh in turn. 

They found themselves in each other’s arms then, pulling at the other’s garments until they came free, tossing them aside to fall freely to the floor in an untidy heap. Darnley’s mouth was on hers, and he tasted of her, she realized to the delight now lighting in her brain, the fire now coursing through her veins. She attacked him in return, her mouth responding readily, hungrily to the intensity of his own, as she wrapped her arms up and around his back, her hands getting lost in the curls of his hair. He was pressing his body against her, lowering her down to the bedspread, and, not only did she allow him to guide her so, she encouraged him to push her down onto the bed, her arms pressing down on his shoulders, communicating to him in their wordless language that she, Mary Queen of Scots, wanted this too. 

“Mary,” he said, gasping for breath, as he nudged her legs apart. 

“Shh,” she whispered, as she kissed him again, and then in a reckless break for air, as she caressed his cheek with her hand, “I know, I know.” 

She felt his hands on her hips, her thighs, a steadying grip on her naked buttocks, and at once, ascertaining his need for it was her own, she lowered her legs to allow him to enter her, and he did, thrusting himself into the abyss of her sex. She broke her mouth from his momentarily, a desperate breath of air, as she reveled in the feel of him inside of her, and instinctively, wrapped her legs around him in encouragement as he increased the pace of his thrusts. 

She could hear him crying, he was so close to coming, and she, she was lost in the undulating waves of her own pleasure—she had forgotten what it felt like, to be one with a man, to join his ecstasy with her own, and it felt joyful to her to be so in union with him, with Darnley, like this, as she never before knew him. 

He cried out her name when he came, and her body responded with a gratifying orgasm of her own. She felt him fall against her in sweet exhaustion, himself burying his face against her neck, kissing her there ever so softly. 

She laughed, feeling almost ticklish with the way his lips graced her skin, the rest of her mind a pleasant void, as they laid still intwined. She could not recall the last time she had felt so at ease.

“Darnley,” she said, after a time, once she could catch her breath. 

He raised his head to look at her. “Yes?” he said, equally breathless.

She looked at him with newfound fondness, herself thinking how wild it was that circumstances could shift in the span of a few careless moments—in the length of a heartbeat, a life could be over, and just as quickly, a new one begun. She knew that better than anyone what it felt to arrive too late.

Now she was feeling that, perhaps, she was just in time. 

“I was going to ask you, well,” she said, finding herself suddenly shy and maybe a bit embarrassed. She blushed becomingly in the candlelight, a slight deterrent, but said what was on her mind anyway. “Would you like to sleep here tonight?”

He laughed himself, and bent to kiss her lips. “If the Queen permits,” he said, breaking his lips from her own, and watching her with his eyes. 

She smiled up at him. “It’s the Queen’s request, actually,” she spoke.

“Well, in that case,” he said, lying down next to her once more, “I can’t imagine possibly declining the invitation.”

She smiled at him, but then her smile faded, as the thought of consequence and responsibility came over her once more. 

“It’s not a permanent invitation,” she said then, shifting out of his arms to look up at the ceiling, at the patterns of light and shadow the flickering candlelight traced above them. “I am still angry and upset, and have half a mind to throw you out, _but_ ,” she said, and here she paused, smiling despite herself, “I am willing to put all that aside to spend this one night with you so I can learn what there could have been between us if things had been different.”

He sighed, and she felt his body slightly stiffen at her reproach, at the terms she regally laid out before him. There had been no room for argument within them—she had made certain of that—and she found herself wondering what he would do now that he had heard them. Would he accept them or leave? Just when she felt she could not suffer his silence any longer, she felt his body ease beside her. “I understand,” he said at last. “But Mary,” he added, perhaps to debate her, perhaps not—she still had much to learn about him—“it’s not too late. You don’t have to think like that.”

“I know,” she said, putting aside the whirlwind of thoughts racing through her mind—the lows and the highs where both the men in her life were concerned. In one moment, she saw her marriage with Francis, the happiness she shared with him, and then the next moment it was whisked away, and she was left to make things work with Darnley in his place. She still had a long way to go on that front, especially where his ambitions were considered— _How to break it to him gently that I still intend to be my own Queen? That this changes nothing?_ she thought then only to dismiss the thought. No, as much as she might hate to admit it, perhaps, where Darnley was concerned it was time to stop arguing and put forth a sort of compromise where the both of them could be happy in this marriage that the neither of them chose. She had no inkling yet what that agreement would be, but she was a Queen, a made diplomat; she would think of something. 

And the matter of her heart? That too would make sense with time. Yes, she was still grieving, still lost and unsure, but perhaps, she was learning that grief does not necessarily have to be an empty bedfellow. And maybe she could one day find love that did not replace the love of her past but reaffirmed it. Who knew? Surely, she did not, but she was beginning to understand that perhaps that did not matter so much after all. It was all a part of living, or so she now thought, the hurt and the heartache, and as long as she was along for the journey who could possibly tell her what surprise life may next throw her way? Perhaps, she thought, with an inward smile, the seed of her future happiness had been sown this very night. She would not know for certain though unless she allowed it the chance and the time to come to fruition.

Mary turned to face her husband beside her, allowing herself to nestle in his arms. “I know it’s not,” she said again, giving his hand a soft squeeze of reassurance. “But it will take time.” 


End file.
